Before Goethe could remonstrate, they had reached the crest of the little hill, and found themselves in Alide's "Rest." Her "surprise" was a luncheon spread in the middle of the grove; and the exclamations of delight and admiration which broke from the guests rewarded her for the pains she had bestowed on the tasteful decoration of her arbor. The meal was enjoyed with the buoyant merriment of youth, and here, as elsewhere, Goethe led the gayety. With song, jest, and anecdote he amused those within hearing, and exhilarated all by the contagious example of his own almost reckless spirits. Whatever he did, he did in earnest. It is this faculty of great men which makes their simplest action fresh and original; they are generous of their soul, they meet with abundant vitality the demands of every hour, and thus shed a peculiar glory upon whatever claims their regard. To have seen Goethe at such a moment as this, one would have supposed him ambitious of no higher enjoyment than that of a frolic or a festival; he was the veriest boy of the party in liveliness and fun. And yet it needed no keen observer to perceive that "nothing he did but smacked of something greater than himself," for the magnetism of his personality bore as emphatically the impress of his genius as anything durable that he has left behind.
During the day and evening he succeeded skillfully in evading the forfeit of a kiss from Alide, though his escape was rendered the more difficult by the roguish interference of Rosa Stockmar and her companions, who tried to force them together in order to be amused with their confusion. The greater part of the day was spent in the open air, and the soft sunshine, the transparent haze, the delicate purity of the remote pale sky imperceptibly did their share towards filling with joyful serenity these two youthful hearts just expanding into the perfect blossom of love. The knowledge that each heart beat only for the other sufficed to make the presence of all this merry company unreal as any dream. The swift eyebeams interchanged, the pressure of a hand in the game, the close embrace in the rapid waltz, made a mute, delicious communication that satisfied them both for the time.
After dinner, Goethe had been talking with the pastor about the old gentleman's favorite theme, the rebuilding of the parsonage, and had offered to prepare a ground-plan. Dr. Duroc, highly pleased, hurried off at once to confer with the schoolmaster, so that the yard and foot measure might be ready early on the morrow. At that moment Alide hastened to Goethe's side. "How kind, how good you are," she said, "to humor my dear father on his weak side!—not, like others, to get weary of this subject, to avoid him, or to break it off. I must indeed confess to you that the rest of us do not desire this building: it would be too expensive for the congregation, and for us also. A new house, new furniture! Our guests would not feel comfortable with us, now that they are accustomed to the old building. Here we can treat them liberally; there we should find ourselves straitened in a wider sphere. But do not you fail to be agreeable. I thank you for it from my heart."
On the following day the measurement of the house took place. It was a slow proceeding, for Goethe was as little of an adept in the art as the schoolmaster himself. At last he decided to return to Strasburg immediately, to prepare more conveniently and deliberately the plan which had occurred to him. The good father was delighted at the young man's interest in the scheme, and granted permission to leave at once. Alide herself dismissed him with joy; now that each felt certain of the other's love, the six leagues seemed no longer any distance, and a constant communication could be kept up through the diligence, messengers, and letters. He therefore once more bade farewell, with the promise of a speedy return, and, supported by a buoyant feeling of hope, set forth on his journey to town.
It was already dark when he reached his lodging, but the first thing he did was to seat himself at his desk and draw as neatly as possible the plan which he had conceived. When he had succeeded in sketching out a tolerably good idea of the whole, he laid it aside with a sigh of pleasure and satisfaction, and began a letter to Alide. It was late at night before he could tear himself away from this charming occupation. While he wrote, she seemed to be before him, brightening his dingy, lamp-lit room with her own open-air atmosphere. He could not weary of conjuring up in imagination the endowments of her beautiful nature and nourishing the hope of seeing her soon again. Early the next morning this letter was dispatched, with a little package of books, and his own messenger brought back to him her answer of thanks and affection. Thus for a few days the delicious nothings of love were transported between these bewitched ones, annihilating space and time, and uniting them in the closest communion of thoughts and feelings. There was no longer any need of an address from his worthy medical instructor. Those words spoken at the right time had so completely cured him of his morbid desires that he had no particular inclination to see the professor or the patients again. At the end of the week he received a letter from Alide inviting him to a festival, for which some friends from the other side of the Rhine were also coming, and begging him to make arrangements for a long stay. This he did by packing at once a stout portmanteau on the diligence, and in a few hours he was in her presence.
She was standing in the centre of a noisy group of young people, holding her arm upraised, while they tried to guess what she concealed in her closed hand. He had not been announced, but she felt his presence as he stood in the doorway. Her arm dropped by her side; "Wolfgang!" she murmured under her breath, as she sprang forward to welcome him. But her delight was saved from seeming conspicuous by the apparently equal pleasure manifested on the part of all her family. "Papa, mamma, here is our good friend Goethe!" cried Rahel, as she warmly pressed his hand, while the pastor and his wife greeted him with the familiarity of an old friend.
"Who can he be?" "One would say they were all in love with him!" "Where can he have come from?" were the whispered comments of the guests as they saw their sport interrupted by this intruder.
But soon the rich, resonant voice of Goethe was heard above them all. "Do not let me interfere, my dear, kind friends, with your pleasure. It is like coming home to find myself again in your happy circle; but, if Madame Mamma and the young ladies will excuse me, I will retire at once with you, Dr. Duroc, to show you the sketches I have brought, and with your permission I will return soon and enter into the game."
"What! already you have made these sketches? Impossible!" exclaimed the delighted pastor. "You are a capital fellow! Come with me at once, and we will look them over on the porch." And, resting his hand in a fatherly manner on the young man's shoulder, he went with him from the room.
When he saw the beauty of the spotless parchment, with the bold yet delicate lines traced upon it in accordance with his own dearest views, he was quite beside himself with joy.
"I see! I see!" he cried; "this is just such a plan as I would have designed myself. Here indeed is the most beautiful result attained with the greatest economy of means and combined with the highest utility. Ah, my dear boy, what genius inspired you in sketching this plan? You will one day be a great architect. But I stand and prate, instead of exhibiting this exquisite piece of workmanship to our friends within. Come back with me, and let me show it to them at once."
Goethe had stood by, smiling with pleasure at his own success and at the pastor's gratification, but he became serious at this, and interposed hurriedly,—
"Nay, my good sir, I am afraid yonder merry folks are not just now in the mood to examine my sketches carefully, and they might not concur in your flattering estimate."
"Tut, tut, child!" replied Dr. Duroc; "no false modesty! I think I know a good thing when I see it. Come along with me."
And with the sheets in one hand, and with the other gently drawing Goethe by the wrist, he returned in high good humor to the room. The game was just over, and the company were scattered about in little groups, evidently expecting, like so many children, some new diversion to be offered them.
"My good people," said the host, as he led Goethe among them, "I am proud to present to you my talented young friend Herr Wolfgang Goethe. Only see what a specimen of his handiwork I have here to show you!"
His visitors took little notice of Goethe's profound bow, but hastened towards the library-table, curious to see what novel entertainment was going forward. The young man, however, was no whit disconcerted, for a reassuring smile from Alide, together with a deprecatory shrug of her shoulders as she indicated by a cunning side-glance the other guests, dispelled immediately any embarrassment which so brusque an introduction and so ungracious a reception might have occasioned.
"Look!" cried the simple pastor; "is not this just such a manse as you would wish your vicar to dwell in?" And he unfolded sheet after sheet and pointed out the various beauties and conveniences. But he met with no sympathy on the part of his friends: knowing the work to be that of so exceedingly young a man, whose name was, moreover, quite unfamiliar, each one was anxious to cavil at every particular and thus display his own superior knowledge.
"These chimneys are quite out of date," said one: "they have been superseded by a much better style."
"The porch is entirely out of harmony with the rest of the building," sneered another: "one might as well vault a Gothic arch over an Ionic capital."
"It is not possible to throw the stairs so far back," suggested the wisest head of all. "It looks well on paper, but a very little practical experience would have told him that it could not be carried into effect."
Goethe stood by in calm superiority, with a feeling of intense amusement. It was as if he had no interest in the success of these sketches which he had wrought out so diligently and with such admirable skill. He was too happy in Alide's presence to entertain a moment's anger, and he heard their rude and ignorant remarks with the unconcerned critical pleasure with which he might have sat a spectator of one of Molière's comedies. But Alide was flushed with shame and indignation at the unmannerly behavior of her guests, no less than at their injustice to this gifted, courteous, incomparable young man. She could not have conceived that their opinions were not of the slightest account to him, for this was all her world, and she longed to go forward to Goethe and efface the painful impression with kind, encouraging words.
As for the pastor, he assumed an odd expression of wonder and bewilderment on hearing such unsparing censure of that which had to him appeared so excellent. But all other feelings were absorbed in rage when a pompous, officious, elderly man behind him, coolly taking a pencil from his pocket, drew with a bold, free hand such coarse lines and marks upon the clear white paper as irretrievably to destroy the symmetry of the original design.
"How dare you, sir?" cried the pastor, suffocated with anger and disappointment. "How have you the insolence——"
"Papa! papa!" interposed Rahel, trying to calm him.
"Do not be so vexed, dear sir," said Goethe, quietly stepping forward. "It is nothing, I assure you, that cannot be easily remedied. I am more than indebted to this experienced gentleman for his generous suggestions. In reality, sir, no harm is done. You know I told you these were but the sketches from which the perfect drawings were afterwards to be constructed; and I doubt not that I shall be able to devise something far better on a second trial."
"Yes, you are kind, you are generous," said the pastor; "but this is too outrageous. Perhaps in a little while I may be able to forget it." And, endeavoring to conceal his excited temper, he hastened from the room.
Alide now advanced to Goethe, and, taking him frankly by the hand, she thanked him aloud for his attention to her father and for his patience under so great an annoyance. Just then the discomfited author of all this mischief, who had erred only through ignorance, mustered sufficient courage to step up to them both, and earnestly begged Goethe's pardon for the vexation he had caused him. Goethe was only too glad to accept his excuses, and thus in a few moments perfect harmony was restored.
"Do you not recognize Raymond and Melusina?" whispered Alide, as the repentant mar-feast retired. "It is Herr Bernard, and that dainty little creature in the corner is his wife. We call her Melusina ever since you read to us in the summer-house."
Thus he was flattered by seeing the impression his ideas had already made on this circle, of which he had yet seen so little. His words were treasured, his thoughts were adopted, his least action was rendered significant by the importance it assumed in these indulgent eyes.
The remainder of the day was spent with still more gayety and pleasure than the last Sunday he had passed by the side of Alide. Without effort, he succeeded in imparting additional zest and vivacity to every pastime and heightening every frolic by many a comical choice. His unbounded happiness made him even more than usually talkative, merry, ingenious, forward; and yet he was kept in moderation by esteem and attachment. She on her part was open, sympathizing, cheerful, and communicative. They both appeared to live for the company, and yet lived only for each other. After dinner they went outside, for the season was particularly mild and genial, and sought the shade, where social games were begun. On redeeming the forfeits, everything was carried to excess. The gestures which were commanded, the acts which were to be done, the problems which were to be solved, all showed a mad joy that knew no limits. Alide shone by many a droll thought; she appeared to Goethe more charming than ever. All superstitious, hypochondriacal fears vanished, and when the opportunity offered of heartily kissing one whom he loved so tenderly, he did not miss it, nor deny himself a repetition of the pleasure.
After the games, one of the party succeeded in hunting up a couple of village musicians, and a waltz was enjoyed in the meadow. The national dance known as the "Allemande" had superseded all others, and in this their young limbs and light hearts did not tire. It was Alide's favorite amusement, and she was delighted to find in Wolfgang a graceful, expert partner. Again and again they waltzed together, losing sight of all prudent considerations in the exhilaration caused by the lively movement, the close embrace, the whispered words that thrilled through either's soul, the intoxicating freedom of the fresh mountain-air, the elastic earth beneath, and the boundless horizon around.
There was an interlude in the music, and he led her some distance from the company to a rustic seat that had been built in a circle around the colossal trunk of an oak-tree. She was not red and breathless like the others; the fluttering of her heart was more evident in the increased brilliancy of her eyes than in the scarcely-perceptible flush that heightened the natural rose of her cheeks. Under the almost transparent ruffles of her white stomacher, he could see the purer warm white of her soft neck rise and fall with somewhat quickened palpitations, but outwardly she was as calm as though she had not taken part in the waltz. For this delicate, supple creature, motion was as easy and natural as rest.
Just as she took her seat, Rahel, who had followed them with her eyes, advanced hurriedly and whispered in her sister's ear, loud enough to be heard by Goethe, "Everybody is remarking you; mamma is greatly displeased, and we all advise you to go no further in this wild manner." So saying, she ran away to rejoin her companions. Alide looked up at Goethe with the troubled, frightened expression of a child who appeals for a caress no less than for protection. Her eyes were brimming with tears, her cheeks glowing with pain and shame. He took the dear little flower-face between both his hands, and, bending over her, kissed tenderly the pouting lips. "My darling, I love you: is not that enough?" The wistful mouth broke into a radiant smile, though the dim moisture of the eyes gathered into two lustrous, happy tears that quivered upon the lashes. Gently she disengaged herself from the clasp of his hands, and, with a little sigh of peaceful joy, rested her head in silence upon his breast.
For a moment neither spoke or moved, save that the caressing fingers of Goethe stroked softly the warm, wavy gold above her brow. He was the first to break the stillness.
"I know that I am foolish, sweetheart; your loving kindness, your tender confidence, these are much, far more than I deserve, and yet my heart hungers in this silence to hear you utter such words as I have spoken."
She broke from his embrace, clasped her hands together, and, upturning to him a countenance so transfigured and exalted by love that he would scarcely have known it for that of the child who had reposed on his breast, whispered, passionately, "I love you—I love you—I love you!" And, almost falling from her seat, she hid her burning face in her hands.
"That is my own Alide; how can I thank you?" he said, soothingly, as with indescribable tenderness he withdrew her hands and kissed them gratefully. Then, slipping one quietly through his arm, he went on: "Rise, my betrothed; we will take a walk through the meadows; the fresh air will cool your flushed cheeks, and we shall be able to meet once more with composure our friends."
She obeyed, though her slight frame trembled as she leaned upon his arm. But it was only the excitement of the first few moments that wrought such a powerful effect upon her sensitive temperament She was soon quieted into her ordinary calmness, and even her lively flow of spirits was restored, as she walked with him across the sunset fields. Long and slender before them their shadows fell upon the bronzed grass that basked in the last rich glow of the autumn sunset. A narrow bar of purple cloud rested motionless in the green clearness of the western sky; it was the only vapor in that sweep of ethereal brilliancy from east to west. So these two sauntered amid the gorgeous panorama of earth and cloud and sky, carrying within their own hearts the very fire of heaven.
The daylight had faded, and moon and stars were rising, as they rejoined their companions at the parsonage.
Throughout the evening the extravagant gayety of the merry party continued. At supper, people did not return to their sober senses; dancing went on far into the night, and there was as little want of healths and other incitements to drinking as at noon. Amid a great deal of boisterous mirth, the last good-nights were exchanged after midnight, and the guests conducted to their various apartments. Alide was tripping through the silent hall, when she heard her name uttered in a suppressed voice, and, turning round, she saw her mother standing at her own door, beckoning to her to come in. She obeyed swiftly and noiselessly: preoccupied with joyous thoughts, she did not remark the serious, almost sad, expression of her mother's face.
"I have a word to say to you before you sleep," said Madame Duroc, seating herself on a couch and motioning Alide to a low bench at her feet. "I am afraid I must give you pain," she went on, gently caressing the golden little head at her knees. "I had thought to keep you still a child for awhile yet with me; but no, to-night I must speak to you as a woman, and let you know the grave significance of a life that has already begun in earnest. Alide, your conduct to-day has been very displeasing to me: beyond the limits of decorum and of courtesy to your old friends, you have evinced your preference for this young man Goethe, who has ingratiated himself so suddenly into your father's heart and into our family circle. It is now only a little over a month that you have known him; you are not giddy or thoughtless like some of your companions, but you are infatuated by the charm of his appearance and address. A word is sufficient, my child, for one so sensible and docile as you. Let this day be the last that you distinguish this stranger by so much kindness. Your fancy has been kindled, your imagination excited; but go to your room, examine yourself duly, pray to your heavenly Father for guidance and discretion, and try to stifle at once so vain a sentiment before it develops into something that may occasion a life-trouble."
She paused, but Alide did not stir or speak: she was conscious of a strange sort of double existence as she sat with her head buried in her mother's lap; she was the happy, fortunate Alide, Goethe's beloved, and she was the wayward child to be reproved and guided by the warning words of her elders. Seeing her so still, Madame Duroc was alarmed lest the effect of a reprimand had been too harsh upon such a sensitive temperament.
"Alide," she whispered, tenderly, "do not be so much overcome. I have only spoken now because I did not wish to leave it too late; nothing is lost as yet."
"Oh, mamma," said Alide, upturning suddenly a face neither blushing nor tearful, but smiling, trustful, and composed, "you are very, very good to me, but you do not understand: it is not shame that I feel, it is pride and joy and happiness. I love him!"
"My child, you do not know what you are saying!" cried Madame Duroc; "you do not know what those words mean. You cannot realize what disgrace it is for one of our sex to take the initiative in such a matter as this. You have not recognized his power, my poor, confiding child; the whole world is open to one of his force and genius. He will despise the choicest gifts your simple heart can proffer him; he will——"
"Oh, mamma, hush!" interrupted Alide, springing to her feet. "It is you who do not know him, who do not know me: we are already betrothed."
"Betrothed!" exclaimed Madame Duroc, sinking back in her seat.
"Do not be angry, dear, good mamma," said Alide, kneeling before her and taking both her hands affectionately. "He was to tell you himself to-morrow. We had arranged it all, and I should not have spoken now, but I could not help it. It is much better to avoid from the beginning all misunderstandings and mistakes, is it not?"
Madame Duroc made no answer, but silently folded her daughter to her breast, and kissed repeatedly the soft white brow. "Since it is thus," she said, at last, "may you be blessed!" And Alide felt a scalding tear drop upon her cheek.
"Ah, you are harassed after a tiresome day, dear mamma," said she, caressingly. "It is late now; I wish I could have waited till to-morrow to tell you; it is not possible in this dim room, at this melancholy hour, to realize so much light and joy cast on one's whole life. Oh, mamma, what a noble son you will see in him to-morrow, in the cheerful daylight! and how you will rejoice with me in my beautiful destiny!"
An hour later, Alide was sleeping profoundly and dreamlessly after the excitements of this wonderful white day. But Frau Duroc's pillow was stained with tears pressed painfully from wakeful eyes. Her mind was possessed with gloomy forebodings: the mother-heart was yearning in the darkness after the darling of the nest, so suddenly and irrevocably flown.
As for Goethe, he, like Alide, outwearied by such strong emotions, had fallen at once into a deep, refreshing slumber; but scarcely had he slept thus for a few hours when he was awakened by a heat and tumult in his blood. Stretched out, defenseless as he was, his imagination now presented to him the liveliest forms. Excited by love and passion, wine and dancing, his thoughts raged in confusion, and his feelings were tortured into a state of despair. He was thoroughly, keenly awake,—what apparition was this standing by his bedside? The French girl, Lucinda, clad in black, with night-black hair, glowing cheeks, sparkling eyes, and passionate gestures, slowly receding from him. His lips were still afire from her ardent kiss, her shrill imprecation rang painfully in his ears, "Woe upon woe for ever and ever!" as she pointed with her long thin finger opposite to her, where stood Alide, pale, motionless, with her fair, disheveled locks waving about her white-robed form, outstretching her arms towards him in piteous supplication, feeling the consequences of the curse, and yet ignorant of their cause. Between these two, he lay trembling in every limb, as little able to ward off the spiritual effects of the adventure as to avoid the evil-boding kiss. Yes, he had harmed irretrievably the dearest of beings,—the spell had not been broken; far from having freed himself from the curse, it was flung back from his lips into his heart. He sprang up in bed, and looked wildly about him. The illusion vanished, but he could not calm the fever of his blood, that boiled and throbbed in his veins. The myriad possible results of his passion presented themselves to him in such sombre colors as utterly to preclude the chance of sleep or repose for the remainder of the night. He saw this exquisite maiden whom he loved so tenderly, ruined, deflowered, dead. Could it be possible, he mused, that despite the energy of will, the passionate vitality, the comprehensive intellect with which Fate had endowed him, she nevertheless had made him her creature, her football, to such a degree as to impel him along to this preordained end, notwithstanding his most resolute efforts towards the opposite direction? And why had this innocent, beautiful girl, formed so perfectly for happiness, been selected as the victim? Or again, what purpose was he destined to accomplish so lofty and so necessary that such elements as these, the life, the love, the happiness of human souls like his own, should be cast into his hands, to mould as he pleased? Bah! that was the privilege of the gods: to what blasphemy were his reckless thoughts leading him?
Fortunately, daylight peeping in through a chink of the shutter, and the sun stepping forth and vanquishing all the powers of night, put an end to his mad fancies. He was soon in the open air, and refreshed if not restored. The sight of Alide, the feeling of her love, the cheerfulness of everything around him, all reproved him, that in the midst of the happiest days he could harbor such dismal night-birds in his bosom.
As the winter approached, Goethe was obliged to pass the greater part of his time in the city, though, to say the truth, he was there as much absorbed by the image of Alide as while he remained in her presence. Thus he availed himself of every conceivable pretext to ride over to the parsonage, to pass the long, pleasant evenings in that happily-united circle, and return through the frosty red dawn to his occupations in Strasburg. The joyous Christmas festival, celebrated with so much quaint and picturesque ceremony in Germany, afforded him the opportunity for an unusually prolonged visit. They enjoyed together all the healthy winter pastimes, no less varied than the sports of milder seasons; the long, rapid drives and rides over the frozen ground, or in sledges through the snowy fields, the merry skating adventures upon the ponds in the vicinity, and the cheerful evenings in the snug inclosure of the library, where all the family gathered around the blazing logs of the great open hearth and listened to him unweariedly while he read aloud or recounted to them many a winter's tale.
The affair was allowed to take its course without the question being directly asked as to what was to be the result. The parents thought themselves compelled to let the young folks continue for awhile in a wavering condition, with the hope that accidentally something might be confirmed for life, better perhaps than could be produced by a long-arranged plan. It was believed that perfect confidence could be placed both in Alide's sentiments and in Goethe's rectitude, of which, on account of his forbearance even from innocent caresses, a favorable opinion had been entertained. The little birds in his heart began to sing once more; he was able to give rhythmical expression to his happiness, and with his letters he would frequently send such verses as were the natural outpouring of his ethereal fancies and ardent longings. Painted ribbons had just then come into fashion: he amused himself with designing the most fantastic and poetical devices on a few silken strips of blue and lilac and white. These he accompanied with the following stanzas:
Tiny leaflets, tiny flowers,Lightly from thy fingers fling,Waving on the airy ribbon,Young and kindly god of Spring.Waft it on thy wings, O Zephyr,Twine it round my sweetheart's gown.Let her step before the mirror,Laughing as she looketh down,Sees herself with roses girdled,Fresh as any rose, the maid.Grant me but one glance, my darling,And I am enough repaid.Trust the love my heart that filleth,Frankly give thy hand to me.May the bond between us, dearest,No slight band of roses be!
Tiny leaflets, tiny flowers,Lightly from thy fingers fling,Waving on the airy ribbon,Young and kindly god of Spring.Waft it on thy wings, O Zephyr,Twine it round my sweetheart's gown.Let her step before the mirror,Laughing as she looketh down,Sees herself with roses girdled,Fresh as any rose, the maid.Grant me but one glance, my darling,And I am enough repaid.Trust the love my heart that filleth,Frankly give thy hand to me.May the bond between us, dearest,No slight band of roses be!
Tiny leaflets, tiny flowers,Lightly from thy fingers fling,Waving on the airy ribbon,Young and kindly god of Spring.
Waft it on thy wings, O Zephyr,Twine it round my sweetheart's gown.Let her step before the mirror,Laughing as she looketh down,
Sees herself with roses girdled,Fresh as any rose, the maid.Grant me but one glance, my darling,And I am enough repaid.
Trust the love my heart that filleth,Frankly give thy hand to me.May the bond between us, dearest,No slight band of roses be!
As soon as the spring had fairly set in, he made preparations for a prolonged stay at the parsonage. They now passed quietly and pleasantly several weeks in each other's society. The habit of being together became more and more confirmed, and nothing was known save that Goethe belonged to this circle. They were left unobserved, as was generally the custom there and then, and it depended only on themselves to go over the country with a larger or smaller party and visit the friends in the neighborhood. On both sides of the Rhine, in Hagenau, Fort Louis, Philippsburg, and the Ortenau, Goethe found dispersed such persons as he had seen united at Sesenheim, every one by himself a friendly, hospitable host, throwing open kitchen and cellar just as willingly as garden and vineyard.
The islands of the Rhine were often a goal to their water-expeditions. There, without pity, they put the cool inhabitants of the clear river into the kettle, or the spit, or into the boiling fat, and would perhaps, more than was reasonable, have settled themselves in the snug fishermen's huts, if the abominable Rhine-gnats had not, after some time, driven them away. At this intolerable interruption of one of their most charming parties of pleasure, when everything else was prosperous, when the affection of the lovers seemed to increase with the good success of the enterprise, and they had nevertheless come home too soon, unsuitably and inopportunely, Goethe, actually in the presence of the good pastor, broke out into blasphemous expressions, and assured him that the gnats alone were sufficient to remove the thought that a good and wise Deity had created the world. The pious old gentleman, by way of reply, solemnly called him to order, and explained that these gnats and other vermin had not arisen until after the fall of our first parents; or that if there were any of them in Paradise, they had only pleasantly hummed and had not stung. The impetuous youth was calmed at once, for an angry man is easily appeased when he is forced to smile; but he nevertheless asserted that there was no need, in such case, of an angel with a burning sword to drive the guilty pair out of the garden, for this must have been effected by means of great gnats on the Tigris and the Euphrates. The simple old man laughed in his turn, for he could understand a joke, or, at any rate, let one pass.
However, the enjoyment of the daytime and season in this noble country was always serious and elevating to the heart. Goethe had only to resign himself to the present, to enjoy the clearness of the pure sky, the brilliancy of the rich earth, the mild evenings, the warm nights, by the side of his beloved, or in her vicinity. For weeks together they were favored with pure, ethereal mornings, when the sky displayed itself in all its magnificence, having watered the earth with superfluous dew; and, that this spectacle might not become too simple, clouds after clouds piled themselves over the distant mountains, now in this spot, now in that. They stood for days, nay, for weeks, without obscuring the clear sky; and even the transient storms refreshed the country and gave lustre to the green, which again glistened in the sunshine before it could become dry. The double rainbow, the two-colored borders of a dark gray and nearly black streak in the sky, were nobler, more highly colored, more decided, but also more transient, than the artist had ever before observed.
In the midst of these objects, Goethe's desire for poetizing again came forward, and he composed for Alide several songs to well-known melodies, which might have made a pretty little book. Many an hour did he pass by her side at the harpsichord, hearing his own words caroled forth melodiously from her beloved lips, while she, for her part, strove to dedicate all the fire and poetry of her nature to the proper interpretation of his inspired productions.
The resources of his wit, liveliness, and spirits were never at an end. At the same time that he proved in countless ways his sincere and ardent attachment to Alide, he succeeded in making himself the object of the enthusiastic admiration and the warmest friendship of all her family and circle. Even the wary mother consented to throw aside, as a weak selfishness more akin to the pride of appropriation than to disinterested affection, the misgivings and suspicions which she had at first entertained. It was impossible to resist the frank generosity and gentleness of his heart, combined as they were with so winning an exterior, so profound an intelligence, and so brilliant and versatile a genius.
That he might fulfil and even go beyond his promise to the pastor, of a new and elaborate plan for the manse, he persuaded a young adept in architecture to work instead of himself. Thus the ground-plan sketch and section of the house were soon completed; court-yard and garden were not forgotten; and a detailed but very moderate estimate was added. These testimonials of his friendly endeavors obtained the kindest reception; and now the good father, seeing that Goethe had the best will to serve him, came forward with one wish more,—this was to see his pretty blue garden-chair adorned with flowers and other ornaments. Goethe showed himself accommodating, and prevailed upon Alide and Rahel, who were both clever with the brush, to lend a hand in the pleasing task. Colors, pencils, and other requisites were fetched from the tradesmen and apothecaries of the nearest town. They worked upon it always in the open air, and succeeded in decorating it with the most delicate devices. They were standing one morning in the sunshine, admiring the last strokes of their handiwork, when the gate was opened and a visitor advanced towards the house. It was Max Waldstein, who was rarely able to leave his studies, though the bond between himself and Rahel was now a solemnly acknowledged betrothal. After the exchange of merry greetings, he was called upon to admire the painted chair.
"It is quite a masterpiece, I declare," he cried; "and you must have been pretty diligent, for I see that before any of it has had time to dry the whole is finished. Did you begin this morning?"
"You unappreciative man!" exclaimed Rahel, indignantly. "It represents the labor of a fortnight."
Goethe and Alide stood contemplating their work with an odd puzzled expression.
"Why, then, look here," said practical Max, with a hearty laugh, as he gently pressed the tip of his finger against the bright leaves and withdrew it stained with the fresh green paint. "My intellectual young friend Wolfgang has forgotten that he must varnish his colors to make them fast. Or stay, I see what it is; you have bought the wrong sort of varnish, and your chair will never dry! If the dear old pastor takes his ease in this, he will exhibit a quaintly embroidered coat in his pulpit on Sunday."
The artists looked at one another for a moment with crest-fallen countenances, but finally Goethe broke into the jolliest laugh. "Why, this is a veritable Wakefield mistake!" he cried. "Let us make the best of it, dear friends: since the varnish cannot be changed now, let us first try to dry our exquisite designs with fire, sun, rain, wind,—every element under heaven. Then, if the worst comes, who knows but we may have as merry a time rubbing off our colors as we have already had in laying them on?"
But neither sunshine nor draught, neither fair nor wet weather, was of any avail. Meantime, they were obliged to make use of an old lumber-room, and nothing was left but to efface the ornaments with more assiduity than they had painted them; and the unpleasantness was increased by finding that, after the operation, even the original ground-color could not be restored to its former brilliancy. Goethe did not fail to take the lesson to heart, seeing that the artist may become so absorbed in the ideal portion of his work as totally to ignore the practical and useful foundations on which alone any substantial fabric of beauty can be reared. The young philosopher was willing to bear good-humoredly the twits and jests of the whole family, in consideration of impressing upon his memory so important a maxim.
By such trifling disagreeable contingencies, however, which happened at intervals, they were as little interrupted in their cheerful life as Dr. Primrose and his amiable family, for many an unexpected pleasure befell both themselves and their friends and neighbors. Weddings and christenings, the erection of a building, an inheritance, a prize in the lottery, were reciprocally announced and enjoyed. They shared all joy together like a common property, and wished to heighten it by mind and love. It was not the first nor the last time that Goethe found himself in families and social circles at the very moment of their highest bloom, and he contributed not a little to the lustre of such epochs.
It was the middle of May when he decided to return to Strasburg. He had originally been sent there to gain a doctor's degree. On his departure from Frankfort he had promised his father, and resolved within himself, to write a dissertation; and he was now determined to set about this task in earnest. He had indeed begun it before his first visit to the parsonage; but his sudden passion and the poetical visions which it inspired had driven from his head all practical matters. He himself reckoned it as one of the irregularities of his life that he treated this material business as a mere collateral affair. It is the fault of those who can do many things, he said, that they trust everything to themselves. He had pretty well acquired a survey of the science of jurisprudence and all its frame-work; but he felt well enough that he lacked an infinite deal to fill up the legal commonplaces which he had proposed. The proper knowledge was wanting, and no inner tendency urged him to such subjects. Indeed, quite another science, medicine, had completely carried him away.
Before Goethe left the parsonage, he wrung from Alide and Rahel their consent to make their long-talked-of visit to Strasburg. The Durocs were related to some families in the city of good note and respectability and comfortably off as to circumstances. Their cousins the Burkhardts were often at Sesenheim. The older persons, the parents and aunts, being less movable, heard so much of the life there, of the increasing charms of the daughters, and even of Goethe's influence, that they first wished to become acquainted with him; and after he had visited them they desired to see all the family together, especially as they thought they owed the Sesenheim folks a friendly reception in return. There was much discussion on all sides: the mother could scarcely leave her household duties; Rahel had a horror of the town, for which she was not fitted; and Alide had no inclination for it. Thus the affair was put off until it was brought to a decision by Goethe's enforced departure, and his assertion that it would be impossible for him to come again into the country; for all agreed that it would be better to see each other in the city, and under some restraint, than not to see each other at all.
No formal betrothal in the presence of witnesses had taken place, and yet the pastor gave Goethe his blessing, the mother kissed his brow at parting, as though he were already their son; and it was considered quite natural that he bade Alide farewell affectionately as a lover should. He set off in high spirits, with a heart at rest in his bosom and a mind already alert for the active duties that he must accomplish before he could again indulge in holiday pleasures.
For Alide, as she turned back into her home, it was as if the light had been blotted from the day, the spirit of life had departed from the household. There was a heavier sadness in her heart than the brief term of separation warranted, and she saw a dismal omen wherever her eyes fell. But her sanguine temperament rebounded soon into its accustomed cheerfulness and gayety. She succeeded in dispelling the cloud of oppression that had overhung her, as a wrong to herself, a wrong to him. She resolved in his absence to realize the lofty ideal of life which he had inculcated; though, to say the truth, he had but put it into words for her, for she had always animated the v hole family circle with the natural liveliness of her admirably-tempered disposition. One could not behold the glad serenity of her countenance, which seemed like a finer, more ethereal grace superadded to her physical beauty, without fancying her a creature born and nurtured for happiness. The rare capacity for enjoyment was here in the highest degree developed. The subtle feminine faculty was hers of resting content in the conscious possession of a great joy. One could sooner imagine her gently withdrawn from existence in the flush of youthful love and beauty, than estranged from the brightness and hilarity which formed so essential a part of herself. What harm could befall one so delicately constituted that the first rough shock of distress or calamity would, in all probability, snap the frail link between body and spirit and set free the immortal soul of joy?
It was a foggy day in early June, with occasional heavy showers of rain, when Madame Duroc and her daughters set out on their journey to Strasburg. The pastor could not leave his parish-duties to accompany them, so he drove with them over to the Drusenheim inn, and, after seeing them comfortably seated in the diligence, with many an affectionate embrace and injunction to take care of themselves and each other, he bade them Godspeed. It seemed like a flat, level country across which the diligence was painfully dragged by the steaming horses, for the majestic shapes of the mountains were lost in the fog which clung to their summits and sides. Rahel was nervous and excited at the thought of all that would be expected of her in the city, and irritated, moreover, by the unpleasantness and tedium of the drive through the rain, when a little sunshine would have made it a charming excursion. But Alide was satisfied with a glimpse now and then through the torn cloud-curtain of meadow, hill, or leafy wood: she had learned every curve and landmark of the road since Wolfgang had been going constantly back and forth. There was even an agreeable mystery about the dense vapor which encompassed them, and she felt as though she were traveling to an enchanted city that would gradually shape itself out of the mist.
There were no passengers besides themselves in the coach, and their mother entertained them with descriptions of the city as she remembered it in her youth, before the Alsatian customs had given way to French innovations. "Well, we are nearing it now," cried Alide. "See, there are the gardens and the public walks. Ah! one can hardly hear one's own voice over these rough stones." And she was forced to keep silence as the lumbering vehicle rattled through the noisy lanes. They passed long rows of irregular houses, squares, shops, markets, and churches, with at intervals a glimpse, from the most unexpected corners, of the solemn Minster, until finally the diligence was brought up in the court-yard of a hotel.
"I do not see the Burkhardts anywhere," said Rahel, peering anxiously from the window.
"I will take you to your cousins. Welcome, welcome to Strasburg, dear friends!" cried a well-known voice at the door, and Goethe stood ready to help them alight.
"I hope you have not been wearied, Frau Mamma, by your drive through this dismal weather. Your girls bring the sunshine along with them. Ah, if you knew how I have looked forward to this day!" And he gazed frankly and ardently into Alide's eyes.
He carried their cloaks and valises across the hotel-yard as he led them to the carriage which was awaiting them. Fräulein Burkhardt sprang from within as she saw them approach; she welcomed her kinswomen gracefully and affectionately, apologizing for the absence of her mother, whose uncertain health had forbidden her venturing out in this wet weather. "I am a thousand times obliged to you, Herr Goethe!" she cried, in her shrill, thin voice, as the carriage rolled away. "We shall expect you this evening."
Anna Burkhardt was a short, slim girl, whose narrow peaked face, with its almost imperceptible lips, long, sharp nose, and prominent chin, might have belonged to an old woman had it not been relieved by a fresh, young complexion, more delicately colored than those of her cousins, young, brown, inexpressive eyes, and a profusion of soft brown hair. Her feet were small, but it was only owing to the skill of her bootmaker that they appeared well shaped; and her thin, veiny hands had no beauty when ungloved, save that of numerous sparkling rings. And yet few people considered her either plain or unattractive: her manners were so suave, so graceful, so exquisitely refined, that they formed a charm and a beauty in themselves. Small in stature and insignificant in appearance as she was, these gave her presence a peculiar dignity and importance. Beneath this polished surface there was no generous warmth in the blood; a naturally envious and even spiteful disposition was concealed under the bland exterior of a precocious woman of the world, and an unerring tact served for all her purposes as a substitute for culture and intelligence. Perhaps it was owing to the fact that her mother had long been an invalid and had intrusted to Anna the entire direction of the household, that the girl had lost all the simplicity of her age; but, be this as it might, her graceful, high-bred, worldly-wise personality found more admirers than many a fresher and prettier girl. Poor, blundering little Rahel, with her delicately-chiseled face and picturesque coloring, found it difficult to shine beside this almost homely cousin of hers; and yet if any one could have put her at her ease, by covering her mistakes, ignoring her confusion, and endeavoring to make her appear to advantage, it would have been Anna Burkhardt. But Rahel was beyond the reach of help: she persisted in seeing only an additional discouragement in the easy grace and tact of Anna's bearing, and in the end her friendliest well-wishers found that the kindest mode of treatment with her was to leave her alone and let her stumble along as well as she was able.
The second daughter, Margaret, was strikingly contrasted with her sister: she was entirely without Anna's winning courtesy, and indeed was condemned by most of the matrons of her society as having "no manners." She was scarcely prettier than Anna, and yet she was still more admired. She had a charming little blonde head and a transparent, colorless complexion; but there her beauties ended: her face was distinctly German in its contour, her mouth large, her nose broad and upturned, and in figure she was nearly as short as Anna, though fuller and better proportioned. She was bright, amusing, and if not precisely witty, yet an unabashed candor and naïveté lent her conversation a certain piquancy of its own. At the first glance it would have been almost impossible to believe that she was not a pretty girl: she looked as if she had stepped out of a picture. Unlike Anna, she wore the simplest things; there were no jewels upon her pretty, plump hands, and her small, fine ears remained unpierced; and yet every detail of her costume, more than coquettish, was actually artistic. With such natural advantages as either Alide or Rahel possessed, how would these shrewd city-girls, who knew how to turn everything to account, have distinguished themselves in the circle to which they were born! And nevertheless, beside them, their beautiful country cousins seemed almost devoid of attractions.
Now was Goethe to find his fair friends whom he had been accustomed to see only in a rural scene, and whose image had appeared to him hitherto only before a background of waving boughs, flowing brooks, nodding wild-flowers, and a horizon open for miles,—now was he to find them for the first time in town rooms, which indeed were spacious in themselves, but narrowed by furniture, carpets, curtains, glasses, and porcelain figures. It had a singular effect upon him when he entered the Burkhardt drawing-room early in the evening of the Durocs' arrival. Alide, whom his eyes first sought and found, seemed unfamiliar, almost strange, in this uncongenial atmosphere; her surroundings appeared to render commonplace everything about her which had before struck him as eminently becoming and poetical. Something incongruous offended his artistic sense as he beheld this simply-clad country-girl, with her one long golden braid falling down her back like the bourgeoises in the street, and her high-heeled little boots and silver-clocked red stockings plainly to be seen under her scant furbelow, while around her were grouped the pale, delicate, elegant town-ladies in their flowing, silky French gowns, harmonizing perfectly with the luxurious appointments of the room itself. With his lively feeling for everything present, he could not at once adapt himself to the contradiction of the moment. All this, however, was but a flash through his mind when he first caught sight of her; for when she rose with graceful, unconcealed pleasure to receive him, as composedly as she would have done in her own house, she was again his sweetheart and his pride. As he bent and kissed her ungloved hand, she did not see, and she would not have understood, the burning blush that tingled in his cheeks. "Dear friend," she murmured, innocently, "what a joy it is to be once more together!" He did not speak, but as he raised his head his loving eyes gave sincere and eloquent response.
Several guests were expected besides himself, though he was the first to arrive: they were to have a dance and a supper, and in the interval were to entertain themselves, after the approved city fashion, with conversation alone. Rural games and the myriad resources of country life were of course quite out of the question, and Rahel for one knew not how to fill up the gaps. The poor girl looked almost as she said she felt, "like a maid-servant," with her short petticoat and her high, tight waist, and by her awkward self-consciousness she rendered the disparity between herself and her cousins still more conspicuous. As she gave her hand to Goethe, she muttered, in an almost audible whisper, "It is like a breath from the country to see your face here. Did I not tell you I would never feel at home in Strasburg?"
When the visitors arrived, he had an opportunity to contrast the appearance and behavior of the Duroc family with those of the society which formed his own circle. The dignified and calmly noble demeanor of the mother was perfectly adapted to the situation; she was in no wise different from the other ladies. But Rahel was painfully ill at ease, fancying that the eyes of the whole company were riveted upon her. When she was spoken to, she either answered in monosyllables, or plunged into random assertions on subjects of which she was totally ignorant. She seemed to look to Goethe for support and assistance, and frequently succeeded in embarrassing him also by her unconventional familiarity, and her untimely allusions to incidents and jests that were not understood outside of the Duroc parsonage. As she had formerly called to him in the gardens or beckoned him aside in the fields if she had anything particular to say to him, she did also the same here, when she drew him into the recess of a window. She had the most unimportant things to say to him,—nothing but what he knew already, that she wished herself by the Rhine, over the Rhine, or even in Turkey. He did his best to appease her, but without success.
Alide, on the contrary, was highly remarkable in this position. Properly speaking, she also did not suit it; but it bore witness to her character that, instead of finding herself adapted to this condition, she unconsciously moulded the condition according to herself. She acted here as she had acted with the society in the country: she knew how to animate every moment, and, without creating any disturbance, she put all in motion. She spoke of the wardrobe, the ornaments, the personal graces of her cousins, without affectation, and considered and admired them without envy; yet all the time she seemed perfectly content with her individual customs and appearance. Goethe she treated the same as ever: she seemed to give him no preference, but that of communicating her desires and wishes to him rather than to another, and thus recognizing him as her servant.
He had received permission from Frau Duroc to come early the next morning to drive with herself and her daughters through the town and take them over the Cathedral. A soft, clear sky and balmy air made a paradise of the quaint old narrow streets, through which they rambled at will, while Goethe's inexhaustible information and eloquence illustrated every object of interest that they visited. He explained to them the very curious effect given to the city just at this period by the half-executed plans to beautify it. If a crooked side of a street was to be straightened, one man would move forward to the appointed line, while his neighbors remained in their old positions; and thus the oddest projections and recesses were left. Rahel's awakened curiosity, gratified at every turn, and yet continually and artfully excited by Goethe with the promise of some fresh wonder, made her in some degree forget the mortifications of the previous evening and her desire to be once more at home. However, even here her restlessness was apparent, and he was forced to exert his utmost ingenuity to amuse and entertain her.
Alide was quiet and subdued; she looked with wondering eyes at these unfamiliar scenes, and tried to realize the various lives and interests that encompassed her. By his side she was happy; in looking on his beloved and beautiful face, all other thoughts and emotions were absorbed in a flood of joy. But, as the hours slipped by, a sense of unrest and vague trouble gained upon her. When he spoke, though she was inspired and excited by his enthusiasms, she did not share them, often she could scarcely understand them. Her nature did not expand, like his, to embrace these various activities; it rather shrank within itself, suffocated for want of stimulus amidst this seething world of life, as the fish gasps for air in the midst of the rare element itself. She felt cramped, choked, belittled, in these noisy thoroughfares, these crowded lanes, beneath these towering edifices.
They alighted at the Cathedral, and entered the solemn sanctuary. The sudden transition from the brightness of the noonday streets to this tender twilight, the vast space of the inclosure, the exquisite beauty of the slender reed-like pillars supporting the lofty vault above, the awe-inspiring associations connected with the venerable Minster, caused a deep religious adoration to take entire possession of the simple girl's breast. She bowed her head and murmured to herself a child-like prayer. He divined her emotions, though she could not guess his own, and he refrained from interrupting her silent communion. Rahel was chattering to the sacristan, who led her and Madame Duroc away from the others, down the long aisle.
"Alide," said Goethe, in a low voice, as she raised her eyes towards him, "I love you dearly when I see you thus, and yet you are not mine at such a time: you seem rapt away from me in some beautiful vision where I cannot follow. The gates of heaven are open for an instant, and then all is dark to me, until you return to earth, bringing upon your brow a reflection of the very glory of Paradise."
"Ah, Wolfgang!" she murmured, passionately, clasping her hands with the gesture that was habitual to her when deeply moved, "why is all dark to you? Why cannot you, who are so wise and so good, follow me into this celestial world, where simplicity and faith are all that are required to open wide the gates? Why shall not we twain, so closely united by sympathy and love, draw from the same sublime source our courage and our consolation? This is a subject that I have never before dared to mention, and yet now I am bold to speak. What more fitting time, what more sacred place, could we find than now and here to fall upon our knees together and unite in adoration of that blessed Lamb of God who died on Calvary for man?"
A hot flush mantled Goethe's face, and an expression of weariness almost amounting to pain clouded his brow, as he listened to Alide's enthusiasm. When she ceased, he took her clasped hands in both his own, and answered, very gently, "My dear little girl, you must not ask me to do this, you must not speak to me again in this way, for it can only give pain to both, showing between us a gulf that cannot be bridged. I love you; that must be enough. Upon these questions I have thought much, I have suffered much, I have undergone much that you can never understand; but now I am at peace. Do not be distressed for my sake; in the eyes of the beneficent Disposer of events our souls are at one."
She answered him with a bewildered, frightened glance. The solemn emphasis with which he had spoken forbade her continuing her impassioned appeal. Her eyes filled with tears. "A gulf between us!" she repeated, slowly. "Ah! that was my terror, and it has come. What will it grow to be when we are man and wife?"
"Alide! Alide!" interposed the shrill voice of Rahel, who now hastened to her sister's side, "come and see these beautiful holy relics the sacristan has been showing us. And then we are going to mount to the platform and see the view from the gallery."
How often these trivial intrusions occur at moments that seem like the crises of our lives! and yet perhaps all had been said that either just then was able or ready to speak, and it may have been well for both that the peremptory demands of the hour forced them back to the actual world.
The panorama from the gallery above the Cathedral fully answered their expectations. The romantic city, the level-stretching meadows, the golden river with the noontide sunshine flashing upon it, the far-away mountains, but, above all, a just perceptible glimpse of Sesenheim, set Rahel fairly wild with delight, and struck them all with wondering admiration. This was the crowning pleasure of the day, and, after so much enjoyment and novelty, all were ready to return home and take some rest before they met again at dinner.
Alide was unusually pale, and confessed to feeling somewhat wearied, but the equable cheerfulness of her mind had already been restored to her by the unwonted tenderness and caressing attentions with which Goethe sought to make her forget their painful conversation in the Minster.
"When we are man and wife." These half-dozen words kept ringing in Goethe's ears and haunting persistently his brain. Each one seemed to fall separately upon his sense with its own little shock of surprise, though the idea they conveyed had been long, in a vague way, familiar to his mind. It would be idle to assert that he had drifted blindly to this end and that he now for the first time realized the significance and result of his passion. But it is true that he had never before framed this idea in words, nor imagined it as it now presented itself, an incongruous and inevitable fact. He who felt conscious of a superabundant vitality that was to expend itself in every phase of experience, he who awoke daily to a keener perception of the capabilities of a worthily-developed soul, he who fancied in his exalted hours that he heard the voices of art, science, and nature invoking him, their darling son,—in the recklessness of his extravagant youth he had fettered himself for the remainder of his days, he had cramped his wide-soaring flight to keep pace with the halting footsteps of a child; at the threshold of a world that seemed all too narrow for his energies and capacities he had bound himself to tread the accustomed, decorous paths of a commonplace German citizen. For so long a time he had been in the habit of seeing all things through the medium of his passion, that it seemed as if a film or a glamour had been brushed suddenly from before his eyesight.
And yet it was no witchcraft that had made him find her marvelously pretty; for so she looked at this moment as she advanced towards him, with her half-timid, half-confident air, and her free, graceful carriage, as though she stepped on grass and heath.
"I have come to beg a favor of you, Wolfgang," said she; "but you must promise beforehand to grant it."
"Naturally," answered he, forcing a smile, "that is the way you women always beg: first must come the consent, and then you humbly present your petition." Then, seeing her discomfited expression, he added, with his usual spirit, "But you know very well that I am always at your service, Alide. What is it now? I am ready for anything you propose."
"Ah, now I recognize you again," cried she. "The girls are expecting some friends this evening, and they have sent me to beg you to entertain the company with reading aloud as you used to do for us at the parsonage."
"Is that all?" asked he, good-humoredly. "Of course I will do my best to oblige you; only they must promise in their turn to be very attentive, and not to grow impatient if I require two or three hours to myself."
She led him joyfully among the family group, where he was thanked on all sides for his amiability, and Alide received her share of reflected admiration and homage from those who perceived her influence over him. As few of them were familiar with English literature, and he was in the period of his first enthusiasm for Shakspeare, he selected "Hamlet" as the subject of the evening's diversion. Never had Alide seen him more inspired than he appeared this night. He delivered every part with eloquent expression; but when he uttered the words of Hamlet himself he seemed to be in living reality the beautiful melancholy poet-prince, whose nobly-dowered, ill-balanced nature had been so "horribly shaken with thoughts beyond the reaches of his soul."
The attention of the whole company was strained to its utmost; they were enveloped by an atmosphere which they had never before breathed, and transported to scenes hitherto unimagined. Their ears were spell-bound by the thrilling modulations of that strangely sympathetic voice, which alone filled the room, no less with its gravest tones of awe and grief and its deepest murmurs of tenderness than with its irresistible force in the "very torrent and tempest of passion." Alide sat directly opposite Goethe: throughout every act she remained motionless, with her eyes fixed upon his face, utterly unconscious of any other presence. And yet, though her attitude remained unchanged, and her hands lay quietly crossed in her lap, any one who had watched her attentively would have seen that she was a prey to a succession of various and powerful emotions. From time to time she sighed deeply, and a passing color tinged her cheeks.